Payne expected that his call, as before, would automatically roll over to voice mail—the forensics lab now had possession of her cellular telephone, the pieces of which had been recovered beside the Jaguar—and he could again get Joy Abram’s mobile number from the end of the recording.
But there was no recording. Instead, following what sounded like two clicks, a familiar woman’s voice answered.
“Good afternoon, Matt. It’s Aimee Wolter. What can I do for you?”
After the initial shock—first, that a live person had answered, and, second, that it was a woman—the explanation for that fell into place.
Payne, who was familiar with Wolter both from her business and from the social circuit, knew there was a reason she named her firm Dignatio Worldwide. She was well known for protecting the dignatio—Latin for dignity, reputation, honor—of an international clientele. Corporations to celebrities, she handled the heavy hitters.
He remembered that Aimee Wolter had managed the publicity for the Harold Morgan Cancer Research Center’s fund-raising campaign, which, of course, Camilla Rose had run. It logically followed that her kids charity was a client, too.
Aimee Wolter picked up on Payne’s hesitation.
“You’re not the first to be caught off guard,” she said. “With the event still scheduled for tomorrow night, and Joy handling everything as best she can, we decided that I should cover Camilla Rose’s phone calls and had her number forwarded to mine. Some I don’t answer until I know what they’re calling about, but your name came up on the ID. Is this about my interview this morning with your detective? Have you learned—”
“We need to talk,” Payne interrupted. “But, first, do you or Joy Abrams know where John Austin is?”
“Hold on,” Wolter said. Payne heard her raise her voice. “Anybody hear from that asshole Austin yet?”
Payne’s eyebrows rose.
A second later, Wolter was back on the phone. “No idea where he is, Matt. We went to the hospital this morning and he’d signed himself out. And there was no answer when one of my assistants knocked on his hotel room door.”
“What time was that?”
Payne heard her raise her voice again. “When did Samantha knock on that bastard’s door?”
Wolter came back on the phone. “At nine this morning, and again around one this afternoon.”
“Why do I get the feeling you’re not exactly a fan of Austin’s?”
“Because I’m not. I’m absolutely crushed about what’s happened to Camilla Rose. She wasn’t just a client; she was a friend. And I’m furious. I can’t help but think that what happened is because of something he’s done.”
“Do you know of something?”
“No, nothing specific. Which is what I told your detective. I don’t know what else I can tell you.”
Payne was quiet, then said, “Okay. It’s critical I find Austin as soon as possible. There’s reason to believe he’s in more danger.”
“Because of yesterday,” she said, her tone questioning.
“I cannot say but . . .” Payne began, felt his phone begin vibrating, and said, “Sorry. Hold a second.”
When he pulled it from his ear to look at the screen, he saw the caller ID read DENNY COUGHLIN.
“All right,” he said into the phone. “I’ve got to take this call. Please let me know if you hear from him. I’ll be in touch shortly.”
“Sure thing, Matt,” she said, and hung up.
Payne tapped the screen and answered the call: “Yessir, Uncle Denny?”
Harris looked at him.
“Yessir,” Payne, after a moment, said. “I do believe I’ve been there a time or two. See you tomorrow.”
[ FOUR ]
Ninth and Vine Streets